


Brinksmanship

by executrix



Category: Dollhouse, Revenge - Fandom
Genre: Canadian Shack 2011, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-10
Updated: 2012-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-29 07:16:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/executrix/pseuds/executrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two mad scientists! No waiting!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brinksmanship

**Author's Note:**

> This occurs pre-series for both Dollhouse and Revenge.

“It’s not home,” Nolan said, gesturing at the floors and the cathedral ceiling, which you could just tell were painstakingly assembled out of endangered hardwoods, and the drapes, which are buffalo check but probably combed from the underbellies of inbred llamas. “But it’s much.”

Topher suspected all along that “shack” would be some kind of tongue-in-cheek understatement, but he is disappointed by the actuality. How can anyone claim that there is luxury beyond the dreams of avarice, when There.Are.No.Twizzlers? There are many venerable varieties of junk food, in a kitchen and pantry large enough to film a TV show about adorably impecunious New Yorkers, as well as a vast assortment of foods, some of them suitable for occasions on which Nolan likes to cook. But No. Twizzlers. At all.

Nolan could certainly summon an airlift to bring them, but by the time it arrived, Topher would have forgotten what he wanted and gone on to disassemble the Cruvinet or attempt to direct the cat in a production of “Peer Gynt” or something.

A small robot, all too clearly showing its origin as a hacked Roomba, brought over one Mountain Dew, one sidecar made with single-batch bourbon, and a dish of five-spice candied pecans. “Exterminate!” it said cheerily, and Nolan and Topher laughed indulgently.

Topher wore a regrettable Christmas tree sweater over khaki cargo pants and Uggs. Nolan reminded himself that he was wearing corduroy pants embroidered with seahorses and a pink polo shirt over a cream long-sleeved polo shirt, so it was a glass-houses situation, although he was at least partially being ironic.

 _“I just want to borrow your Chief Tech for a weekend,” Nolan said. “I mean, I’ll pay for his time, of course. And sign whatever nondisclosure agreement you have in mind. I can afford…custom services, and I have enough technical background to participate in the planning process.”_

 _“You’ve got to be kidding,” said an alarming strawberry blond in a Savile Row suit. “Sick freak doesn’t do well in the real world.”_

 _“What Mr. Dominic means, is that Topher functions better if he remains in a safe and comprehensible environment,” the boss purred. “And we’re all very fond of him and want him to be comfortable.” She reminded Nolan a little of a younger Queen Victoria, although he suspected that it would be DeWitt, red in tooth and Louboutin, who would emerge from a cage match._

 _“Doesn’t he get any vacation? I have a nice ski chalet, which also has, like every kind of gadget and every known form of entertainment software, if he doesn’t ski.”_

 _“We can hardly function without our Chief Technologist,” DeWitt said._

 _“Oh, I don’t know, my company is doing perfectly well without me. Maybe better, even.”_

 _“Look, you do realize, you’re talking about a real person here,” Dominic said with a leer. “So he’s gonna remember whatever you do to him.”_

 _Nolan appealed to DeWitt. “What kind of world view do you people have? I mean, I’ve spent years with venture capitalists and even they didn’t suspect me of raping anything except the IPO market.”_

“Nice crib,” Topher said. He liked his suite at the Dollhouse, but he knew there was no comparison.

Nolan looked around at the wall of glass, showing a vista of crisp Photographer’s White snow and deep evergreens, and reminded himself to buy a house that had smaller windows for a change.

“And, I take my hat off to you, or would if I had a hat, but I have divested the hat that shows I’m not afraid of anything…that code you wrote is tight.”

Nolan gave a modest wave. He found it sort of amusing that, even though Topher fucked with peoples’ heads in a much more dangerous manner than he himself ever did, he was a billionaire and Topher had nothing but Dollhouse paychecks (that, DeWitt said, he never cashed, until finally she set up a trust and transferred them directly there). Surely the rewards of violating laws of God, Man, and the Geneva Convention should pay better than writing social networking platforms?

“I dropped out of MIT,” Nolan said. “Think of what I could have done if I’d finished!”

“I, well, I did graduate from med school,” Topher said. “But they took away the diploma after, umm, an incident…”

“With corpses? And a riding crop?” Nolan asked, because they were deep into Sherlock Holmes territory. Topher just shook his head and declined to provide any further details.

Nolan went into the kitchen, put some bread and bacon and cheese into the George Foreman Grill, then demonstrated that he had modded his wristwatch to grill the sandwiches. They spent a couple of hours trying to figure out a mayonnaise injection system for BLTs. Occasionally Topher would ask about getting down to work on the specs for Nolan’s Special Order, but they never got around to it. Nolan knew that what he really wanted was David Clarke back, but he wasn’t ready to admit it.

Nolan thought it was already a perfect Engagement, with wonderful technical issues to bandy. The chalet had five bedrooms, so it would not be necessary for Topher to defend his virtue or sleep on the floor. (Nolan put Topher’s backpack in the Trampoline Room.) In any case, Nolan suspected that Topher’s place on the Kinsey Scale was not so much Zero as None of the Above.

Nolan liked hanging out with smart people. Also, he liked hanging out with people who make him feel normal.


End file.
